Date: Mon, 20 Oct 1997 07:34:48 MDT From: Robyn Meta Herrington Subject: SUB:CONTEST: Small War The final stretch is on! Critiques to ME and I'll pass them along to the authors. rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca ===========Robyn=============================== A Small War They were waiting for me when I returned from job hunting -- four neatly severed heads lined up along my front steps. Daphne had been busy today. I kicked the quartet into the hedge, grimacing as congealed blood stained my best pumps. Why couldn't Daphne just lick my face like other dogs? Daphne and the squirrels were waging an epic war this summer on my otherwise idyllic farm. I had no idea what the rodents were doing to piss her off, but Daphne was slaughtering several of them a day. "Probably just her nature," I thought. Other than that, I loved the new house. The three-bedroom farmhouse provided the perfect place to hole up and lick my wounds after the divorce. Let Bob have his co-ed slut. Daphne and I would be quite happy here, thank you very much. The squirrels might not agree, but that was between them and Daphne. Well, not quite. All afternoon, I'd been looking forward to coming home, kicking off those infernal pumps and relaxing in my swing with a cold margarita. That vision didn't include cleaning squirrel blood off my shoes with a toothbrush. Job hunting was the one fly in the ointment of my happiness. I hated walking from door to door, begging for work. Sure, I wasn't technically begging, but it was still humiliating to justify my usefulness to stranger after stranger each day. Most wanted work histories I didn't have. The others tended to be a bit too obvious in taking inventory of what I did have. Nobody seemed to be willing to pay enough to make getting out of bed in the morning worthwhile. Still, as the maroon traces of squirrel gore spiraled out of the sink and the blender hummed its version of Margaritaville, things were looking up. I traded my job hunting uniform for shorts and a t-shirt and sauntered into the crisp fall air. Curling up in the swing, I was ready to sip the whole pitcher of Margaritas while blissfully watching the sun sink into the Ozarks. Arkansas is beautiful in October. The leaves are fading to red and gold and the sky changes to an unbelievable pale blue streaked with thin, ivory clouds. I love to spend my evenings watching the sun dip into the horizon, the color shifting through oranges and reds into the deep, narcotic black of night. "Yeah," I thought. "I'm going to give this up to sit in the drive-through at the bank eight hours a day for $7 an hour." The only thing missing was Daphne. Normally, she'd show up for a desultory game of fetch before settling down for nap beneath the swing. Seemed like she'd started her nap early today. I could make out the hump of her back curled around her water dish. The black of her coated blended with the storage shed she'd claimed for her doghouse. "Here, girl." Nothing. "Come on, Daphne. Ready for a game of fetch?" Still nothing. This wasn't like her. Usually, all 100 pounds of lab came bounding full speed as soon as I stepped out the back door. "Daphne," I cried out with a bit more urgency. Still nothing. Swearing, I lurched out of the swing and started across the yard. Soon, I could see the pool of vomit surrounding her head. Coming closer, I spotted the rainbow scum of poison glistening in the water dish. Tight, bitter tears began welling up, but I choked them down deep in my throat. Clenching my fists, I felt the nails bite into my palms and vowed not to become hysterical. She was just a dog ... just a dog. The chittering burst of ... laughter? ... from the shed made me look up. Half a dozen squirrels sat on the roof, their furry little bellies shaking as they chattered and stared with soulless black eyes. A hot, bitter taste rose in my throat and I gave in to the whole day's frustration, adding my own vomit and tears to the mess at my feet. -x-x-x-x- The deputy came out and looked around. His expert opinion was that my dog had been poisoned by a person or persons unknown. He also thought I was overly emotional and somewhat drunk. After all, it was just a dog. A search of the crime scene turned up an open jug of anti- freeze in the hedge. Apparently that's what had been added to Daphne's water. There were no footprints on the damp ground near the storage shed. "Do you have any enemies who might have done this?" he asked. "Just my ex-husband," I said, "but this isn't his style. He preferred verbal abuse." "What about the dog?" he asked. "Yeah, right," I thought. "Daphne's in the witness protection plan. She's a retired undercover police dog who ratted out a blind mafioso." Instead, I smiled sweetly and said, "Only the squirrels." The deputy looked at me oddly and snapped his notepad shut. "Honestly, ma'am, there isn't much we can do," he admitted. "This kind of thing happens all the time, but without witnesses or suspects ..." He shrugged helplessly. -x-x-x-x- Without Daphne to keep them in line, the squirrels became more brazen. I enjoyed spending evenings in the swing, sipping a drink and watching them frolic. In fact, it would have been perfect bliss if it hadn't been for the bad squirrels. I don't know why I call them that. It's not like they ever actually did anything overtly evil. They just seemed to be delinquents. While the other squirrels bounded from branch to branch or chased each other through the trees, the bad squirrels huddled together on top of the shed or on a branch watching everything that happened through hard, bright black eyes. If they'd been human, they'd have worn leather jackets and smoked cigarettes on a street corner somewhere. Maybe that's where the impression they were stalking me came from. Each time I walked by, they follow me with their eyes. In the mornings, they'd stare and nudge each other as I walked to the car to begin another day of job hunting. I felt like they were making bets on whether or not I'd find work. In the evenings, after I changed into shorts or jeans, they'd chatter at the top of their lungs as I slipped into the swing. I couldn't shake the feeling they were making obscene comments. Paranoid? Delusional? Sure, I knew that. I knew it was the isolation, the alcohol and the sheer frustration of not finding work playing tricks with my mind. But they were still bad squirrels. I finally snapped the night I caught one of them peaking through the window while I bathed. I'd have sworn he grabbed his crotch right before he bounded off. The next evening, my shotgun accompanied me to the swing. It was a small .410 breech-loader, that I used to be pretty good with. Bob had given it to me so we could go hunting together. In those days, we'd shot dove and squirrels together. I never really liked hunting, but it was something we could do together. Squirrels aren't at all dumb animals. The first night I took the shotgun to the swing, they recognized it right off the bat. The first one to see it warned the others before I sat down. If you've ever spent any time watching squirrel's you've seen their warning signal. It's a rather grandiose wave of the tail. The sentry uses a kind of wave pattern, bushing out his fur and rippling his tail behind him like a flag. In a way, it's an almost selfless gesture since there's no way a hunter can miss the signal. Of course, that squirrel will be the only one he shoots that day. The others will disappear as soon as they've seen it. My yard was empty before I could settle into the swing -- except for the bad squirrels. They watched from the top of the shed. heads cocked to the side as if to say they didn't believe I would shoot. The were wrong. I fired at them effortlessly ... and missed. Wood chips splintered from the edge of the roof as they fled, chattering, into the twilight. By the time I popped another shell into the breech, I was alone. Somehow, just taking action against them made me feel better, though. I wasn't merely sitting around waiting for something to happen. I was taking charge of my life. Later that night, after finishing a celebratory pitcher of margaritas, I poured a hot bath. As the tub filled, I dug around in my wardrobe until I found the grass I'd cached there during the divorce. It was a little stale, but I could live with that. I lit the big gas fireplace to warm up the livingroom and lit the joint from my table lighter -- another gift from my ex. We'd met while I was student teaching and he'd found this huge, gaudy lighter in the shape of an apple at a garage sale. You pushed down on the leaves and flame shot out of the stem. I'd given up teaching to become a wife. He'd become a professor to screw co-eds. Tomorrow, I would clean house. Tonight, my bath was about to overflow. Jumping off the couch, I raced to the bathroom on somewhat unsteady legs. The water was almost to the rim when I turned it off. "To hell with it," I thought, "I'll mop it up later." Stripping off my clothes, I finished the joint before slipping into the tub. The water enveloped me like a wet, velvet hand and I closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth. I could feel it seeping in through my pores, warming me to the center of my being, burning it's way into me ... Burning ... It wasn't really pain that caused me to leap from the tub, it was more the growing discomfort, the sudden sense of wrongness. The water should've been getting cooler, not hotter. And yet, it was beginning to burn my skin. In the mirror, my skin was reddening from neck to toe. That was when I saw the empty bleach bottle lying on its side on the shelf above the bath. I must have turned it over somehow while starting the water. Shuddering, I realized I'd been on the verge of falling sleep. How long before the skin burned from my body? How long would I have lasted before dying or being disfigured for life? Hurriedly, I drained the tub and sluiced my body with cold water until I began to feel better. While toweling off, I spotted the squirrel watching me through a chewed piece of window screen. No, I didn't really think the squirrel deliberately gnawed his way through the screen and added bleach to my bath. It was just a coincidence. Still, tomorrow, I was going to go gunning for the little bastards. It was about to become open season on bad squirrels. My skin still felt hot, so I killed the flames in the gas fireplace and went to bed. The covers were too rough against my skin, so I stripped them and lay naked on the sheets. The sound of metal clinking against wood woke me a couple of hours later. Two squirrel's perched on my headboard, holding a butcher knife between them. My scream startled the beasts enough to make them drop the knife and scamper away. The falling knife, however, struck me in the forehead, gouging a furrow along my temple. "Don't be ridiculous," I snapped. "Squirrels aren't trying to kill you. Just close the windows and go back to bed. This will seem silly in the morning." Right. Try sleeping when every noise makes your skin crawl. The sound of feet scampering along the roof or hedges rustling outside a window creates pure panic. Try telling yourself it's all in your head. Finally, sheer nervous exhaustion claimed me and I drifted off. The clang of metal striking stone awoke me to the scent of gas. Hauling on a robe, I headed for the livingroom. The hiss of gas escaping from the fireplace greeted me. The sound must have been one of the squirrels overturning the screen after tripping the gas valve. Fumes were already thick enough to gag me, but I struggled to the door and threw it open. "Is this the best you can do?" I screamed. Something chattered behind me. Turning, I saw one of the bad squirrels perched on the coffee table, his forepaws resting comfortably on the apple's leaves. Fluttering his tail, he leaned forward. The End -- ---------------------------------*=*=*=*=*=*-------------------------------- Robyn Herrington,Editor rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca InfoServe www.ucalgary.ca/~rmherrin New Currents in Teaching and Technology Communications Media MacKimmie Library University of Calgary Ph: 220-3716 (temporary) == Inter tormentia latitia == ---------------------------------*=*=*=*=*=*--------------------------------